#leemolnar

The sea could go on forever if not for the tell tale lights of landmass. Of course, it could just be St. Elmo's Fire, could just be the Flying Dutchman. 

On this table, my writing table for the next five days, there lies a letter I cannot read.

A cargo ship passes in the bay, huge and patchwork. A big top haunted circus tent. A movable heaven. For such a monster to have the audacity to move and bellow. 

Not every word in the world is meant for you to read. I learned that spelunking my family history - snooping like a private investigator to better understand the dying when they had lived enough to write of it.

I get a missive from Portugal - a Jewish boy telling nothing but a declaration of his place in the universe. Portugal. From there to here, I'm sure, much cargo has been carried, but none of it so quick or essential. What could be more important? I am in Portugal. 

And immediately my mind wanders to what that glory could be. Across the Atlantic, before my eyes, across to Old Europe, where every Canadian must admit is the leader of the conspiracy of their country.

I want Europe, but for now the sanctity of port transfixes me. When I went for coffee, saltwater hung in the air like something suddenly remembered.